Broken Boy Soldier
by freshouttaideas
Summary: "Sittin' in bars all afternoon drinkin' is just gonna get you into trouble." A one shot back story for Tim.  Not Slash.  Rated only for some swearing and violence.


I own nothing about _Justified. _Thanks to 50ftQueenie for tech support!_  
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><p><strong>Broken Boy Soldier<strong>

It was a bit early in the afternoon for drinking, but Tim had nothing better to do.

Coming back to Kentucky after leaving the military was a knee-jerk reaction. When he arrived at the Louisville Airport, he hopped the bus to Lexington, taking him closer to Wolfe County and home. At some point on the short ride, it finally dawned on him that there was nothing here for him. His mother was long gone, and his dad had died when he was in Basic, and good riddance. No other family that he was aware of could draw him any closer to the old county so he'd booked into a cheap hotel in Lexington until he decided what to do next.

What he'd done next was buy himself a nice truck with some of the military pay he'd never bothered to spend, and drive out to Wolfe County to visit old friends. He found them going one of three ways: marrying young and working the mines, lining up for welfare and oxy, or clearing out of one of the poorest counties in America to find work someplace else. The only thing he had in common with them anymore was drinking, and after many nights dodging the questions of what he'd seen and done in Afghanistan, he found he preferred drinking alone.

It was turning into a routine. He was up by 6am and out the door, running. The first month, when it was still cold in the mornings, he would run over to the University Campus and do a loop of the Arboretum. But now that spring had hit Kentucky he'd taken to jumping in his truck and heading east to the Daniel Boone National Forest to run the trails there.

The Forest was his backyard growing up. He'd spent days at a time with an old hunting rifle from the house, running loose in the woods. If he had any money at all from working odd jobs, he'd save it up, hidden from his dad, until he had enough to buy a box of rounds from the general store and take off back into the hills. Always rounds, never snacks. It was like packing for patrols in Afghanistan – heavy on the ammo, light on the food.

After his run, he'd drive back into Lexington stopping for lunch somewhere and maybe walk around town before finding a bar. And this is how he filled his time.

The last job interview he'd attempted was two weeks ago. The lady at the placement office had called last week to find out why he'd missed the next two, but he hadn't bothered picking up. He didn't think he could explain to her that he just knew they didn't want him, and how he was even more certain that he didn't want them and how it all ended with a tightening in his stomach and a cold sweat and a trip to the hotel bar to ease his growing anxiety.

He had this nagging feeling that the army had forgotten some crucial step when he was discharged. He still felt tethered, like a dog tied to a post. He kept running in tighter and tighter circles. He'd find himself passing the recruitment office on his walks. Lately, he'd stop and consider. Maybe he should re-enlist.

Tim chose a new bar this afternoon. Settling into a stool he ordered a beer with a bourbon chaser. The bourbon came first, which Tim took as a bad sign. Resigned to the fate of drunken afternoon, he downed it quickly and asked for another as the bartender slid in his beer. She hesitated and he looked up. She was older than he'd first thought, bottle-blonde and smoking lines. The dim bar lights were kind.

"Can I see some ID?" she asked, and nodded her head across the room.

Tim turned, following her nod, and his eyes landed on an older man sitting at a table, shuffling through some papers and working through a sandwich. He was in his 50's, reading glasses and shiny bald head. He was angled so that Tim could clearly see the holstered weapon and the marshal's star on his belt. Tim looked back at the bartender and she raised her eyebrows and held out her hand. He reached into his pocket and took out his wallet, then his driver's license and handed it over. She scanned it quickly and smiled at him.

"Sorry sweetie, you look younger. Probably the bar lights – it's kinda dim in here," she offered sympathetically, put his ID on the counter, and refilled his glass.

Tim had noticed the marshal when he first walked in. The marshal and the two skins at the pool table were the only patrons at this hour. One of the tricks they'd taught at sniper school was memory association as part of the recon duties of a scout sniper. Tim didn't talk much, but his eyes missed nothing. He could describe in detail the items in the bar and where the doors and windows were. He could tell you the color, style, fabric pattern of the shirt and pants on the marshal, and that the skins were both dressed in black – black T's, black combat-style pants, black boots, both around 200 pounds, both with full sleeve and collar tats, and both shaved bald. He had nicknamed them Heckle and Jeckle and slotted them away in his memory, a throw-back to his association training since they reminded him of the old cartoon characters. The marshal was Sam Sheepdog.

Cartoon association had become his favorite way of remembering people since his third deployment to Afghanistan. The night before they'd shipped out, he and his buddies had gotten shit-faced and sat around watching old cartoons on YouTube – Popeye, the Flintstones, Tom and Jerry, and Heckle and Jeckle the crows, squawking and strutting. They had laughed themselves stupid.

The skins were doing a lot of squawking and strutting around the pool table, trying to impress the empty bar. Tim ignored them. He didn't give a shit. He could have kept on not giving a shit if the two girls hadn't walked in.

They looked like they were skipping classes – probably high school– but maybe it was the dim bar lights doing their thing. The girls looked around the room, giggling, and settled on a target. The two weaved over to the bar. One sat on Tim's left, the other on his right.

"Shit," was as kind a thought as Tim could manage. He didn't want their kind of attention.

"Buy us a drink," the one on his right demanded, cooing. Tim was not charmed. He took a good look at her – not high school, but definitely high. Betty and Wilma? Nope, Patty and Selma – just give them a few years. And as if to confirm the comparison, they both lit up.

Patty slid her hand onto Tim's leg, while he drilled his eyes into the back of the bartender hoping she'd come over and ask them for ID. She must have been wearing a Kevlar vest under that skin-tight, leopard-print T-shirt because she continued at her task, unruffled at being in the sniper's scope. Relief came instead from an unexpected source. Heckle and Jeckle strutted up to the bar and leaned in, leering at the girls.

"Damn," drawled Heckle, and Jeckle whistled. "Sure you girls wouldn't rather party than babysit?"

Tim thought this a good time for an exit. He could drink somewhere else.

He had two choices – hop over the bar or slide between Heckle and Jeckle. Hopping over the bar seemed a little extreme so he stood up, mumbled an excuse, and attempted to slip out, grateful for his slim build as he maneuvered to avoid brushing up against either Patty and Selma or the skin twins. Jeckle, however, decided that the girls needed a further show of his masculinity. He stepped sideways to block Tim's escape and breathed beer into his face.

"I think you need to leave us some cash to cover the inconvenience," he sneered.

"What inconvenience?" asked Tim, widening his eyes and putting on his best puppy face. "I'll just leave the ladies here to you fellas and be on my way."

"The inconvenience of the stink of you pissin' your pants, ya little puke-up," growled Jeckle. The skin twins started chuckling at the fine retort. Tim considered changing their nicknames to Beavis and Butthead.

His mind scrambled to think of a way to salvage the situation and Tim hoped he wouldn't have to pay too dearly to get out the door. Patty put an end to that hope.

"Piss off, assholes," she said, and that was all the skin twins needed to start what they'd set out to start when they'd stepped into the bar that afternoon.

Jeckle, still in Tim's face, reacted first. His wide wild swing came so ridiculously slowly that Tim would later swear he had time to finish his beer and shake his head in disbelief at the audacity of a cracker head to think he could go toe-to-toe with an Army Ranger before he ducked the swing and landed two swift, surgical punches that put his assailant on the floor. Unfortunately, Jeckle's fist connected instead with his buddy's chin. Heckle reeled back, growled and pulled a blade from his pants pocket as Tim twisted to face him.

The blade swept in an arc but met air as Tim pulled back. Combat training kicked in and Tim instinctively brought his hands hard against the man's arm, either side of the wrist. A sharp snap and the hand fell slack, dropping the knife. Tim drew back and sucker punched his attacker, drew back again quickly and landed a hard fist on a soft nose. Heckle stumbled backward, tripped and fell across a table howling in surprise.

Tim was now angry. He'd had no intention of fighting this afternoon. He strode over to the table, pulled Heckle up by his shirt and landed another punch. He was angry too that Heckle had brought a knife to a fist fight. He drew back again and landed another hard punch. Once the anger got started it flooded into his memories and washed up fresh fuel for his rage.

A scene from his last tour floated past, and a wave of forgotten hatred hit Tim hard. He was still angry that someone would arm a kid with an AK-47 and bring that kid to a gun fight. He drew back again and hit hard. He was angry that someone would sneak an IED into that gun fight. He drew back again. Angry that someone would kill a poor man's goat to hide the IED in; angry that the poor man hated him and he hadn't even killed the goddamned goat; angry that his spotter took a bullet after the IED blasted the convoy; angry that the only medic was killed in the explosion; angry that the desert was always so goddamned hot; angry that it was always dusty; angry that he was always thirsty; angry at his dad; angry at God; he was just plain angry.

He drew back again but a strong hand took hold of his fist. His combat mind was already twisting to free himself when he realized that he had spent his anger and his energy with it. All of it was running freely down the face of Heckle who rolled off the table onto his knees on the floor now that the onslaught had ceased. Tim steeled himself for the barrage of fists that was sure to follow. He barely registered the click of the handcuffs as his left hand was locked to his right behind him, and the strong hand landed now on his shoulder, pushing him into a chair and holding him there.

Heckle cautiously staggered to his feet, dripping blood and eyeing his savior, the marshal. He took in the scowl, the shoulder-holster and the marshal's badge. He stood wavering, trying to decide if he should push his luck and take a shot at the kid. The marshal seemed to read his mind and wagged a finger under his nose.

"This is over. You, out."

"But this little piece a shit…" Heckle spit.

"Out, or I'll let him have another go."

"But he tried to kill me!" Heckle whined indignantly.

"Lucky he hit your face, then. Couldn't do much damage. Now you and dimwit number two, up, and get the hell out or I will release this Tasmanian Devil here and leave you to it." He made a show of pulling out his keys and identifying the small one for the handcuffs.

Heckle hurried over to Jeckle and hauled him to his feet, cajoling him to get a move on and they stumbled with surprising speed out the door.

"Hey, are you gonna arrest him, or can he buy us a drink now?" simpered one of the girls. "_You_ can buy us a drink if you wanna."

"Sara, check their ID," the marshal ordered the bartender with a stern look.

The girls made a show of collecting their things and leaving in a huff, but not before they drank the bourbon and beer Tim had left on the bar.

The marshal turned his attention to the young man. He hadn't moved since he pushed him into the chair. His stillness was unnatural and the marshal looked to see that he was breathing, narrowing his eyes at him and turning the corners of his mouth down in a deeper scowl, hoping the boy would feel his displeasure and look up. The _look_ always worked with the youngsters at the bureau.

After a time he got tired of holding the scowl. He walked over to the bar, ordered two beers and plunked the glasses on the table in front of his prisoner. Then he unlocked the cuffs and took a seat and waited.

"I didn't start it," Tim said uncertainly, glancing up at the marshal, and quickly back at the floor.

"But you sure as hell were gonna finish it…or I should say _terminate_ it," replied the marshal. "You had him at the one-two, son. A bit of overkill there, goin' for six, seven, _eight_..."

The marshal sat back and waited for a reaction, and got nothing.

"I'm Chief Deputy Art Mullen of the US Marshal's Service. I can't arrest you unless you have priors, some outstanding warrant with your name on it. I could call LPD," he mused. "Ah, but hell. They'd be hard-pressed to find something to charge you with, since, as you say, you didn't start it, and they were the ones with the weapon. And shit, why, I'd have to be a witness for the defense, since I guess you _were_ just defending yourself, so I'd look pretty stupid for callin' them."

He stopped, pursed his lips and rubbed his head. He put the scowl back on and squinted at Tim.

"You been in trouble before? Assault?" he asked. "Maybe I should go the Marshal route, after all. Any chance your name'll pop if I call the office?"

The question received a slight shake of the head for an answer.

"Well, most criminals like to start small, you know, B&E, assault, then work up to something big like manslaughter. But you're a real go-getter – you're determined to go straight to a federal penn, first offence! That make ya proud?"

Again, Art sat back and waited for a reaction, and got nothing. He changed tack.

"Got a name, son?"

"Tim, Tim Gutterson."

"You from Lexington?"

"Wolfe County."

Art looked the young man over carefully, searching for some leverage and spotted the tattoo on his wrist.

"Military?"

That got a reaction. If it was possible, the young man went stiller.

"With hand-to-hand skills like that, I figured you for military. What branch?"

"I'm with the Rangers." Tilting his head to the side he added, "Um, was..."

"How long you been out? What're you doing now?"

Tim decided he wasn't going to jail today. He took a deep breath, let it out and sat up. He wiped his hands on his pants, trying to get the blood off, reached for the beer and took a long drink. Setting his glass back down, he looked up at the marshal.

"Uh, I got back last month. 'M not doin' anythin'. Not sure, ya know, what…" his voice trailed off and he shrugged and looked back at the floor.

Art's features softened a bit. God, this kid looked young and it made him feel old.

"Well, what skills have ya got? What did ya do in the Rangers?" Here he was again, playing Daddy. His wife would go all gooey when he told her about his latest stray, saying what a good man he was. He'd reply it was a bad habit he'd be wise to stop.

"I'm... I was a sniper," Tim replied. "I've been lookin' for work but I haven't really got any skills, and I can't see goin' back to college just now…"

"You gotta have skills comin' outta the military, son." Art rubbed his hand across his bald head again. "I know the Marshal's Service will take you if you got four years military service. Probably the same with other law enforcement outfits. Hell, any tactical team would be happy to have a trained sniper with combat skills knockin' on their door."

Tim looked up, the lost boy look gone.

"If I wanted to keep shootin' people, I'd of stayed in the army," he stated firmly.

"Hunh," Art grunted. "Maybe not tactical then. But look, I've been in the Marshal's Service for 30 years. I've drawn my side arm plenty o' times, but I've only shot someone once. Hell, here in Lexington, it's so quiet – the Marshals in my office never shoot anybody. In fact, most of 'em transfer out they're so bored."

Art slid a card out of his wallet and set it on the table.

"Look, son, just take a step. Do somethin'. Anythin'. It don't have to be permanent. Sittin' in bars all afternoon drinkin' is just gonna get you into trouble, and I'd hate to see your name come up on my bulletins."

Art finished his beer and got up. He walked to the bar, paid for his lunch and the drinks, walked back and gathered up his papers. He moved slowly and deliberately, hoping that the young man would say something to make Art feel like he hadn't wasted his time, hoping to see him at least pocket his card. When he couldn't stall any longer, he took a last look over at the quiet figure, shook his head and left, disappointed.

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><p>It wasn't a particularly bad winter, just damp, and Art was tired of his knees aching. When his knees ached he got grumpy and when he got grumpy he started wishing for some excitement, and excitement was not something to be wished for in law enforcement.<p>

Art sat at his desk, unsatisfied with the unexciting day. He hadn't had to chew out anyone, there were no troubles to drink away, and no one on whom to practice the _look_. There was no fun to be had on this Wednesday. He shuffled a few papers around, trying to look busy and was grateful when the phone rang, giving him something to do while the clock ticked slowly from 4:30 to 5pm.

"Hello, Art? It's Catherine, from Glynco. How're things in Kentucky?"

"Hey Cathy, nice to hear yer voice," Art replied, perking up. "I was just feeling sorry for myself 'cause things here are goin' so well. It's boring as shit. No fun at all. I'm gonna die of old age at 100, just sittin' here in my office chair. You'd better call me once a week when it gets close to that time to make sure I answer."

"I'm busy next week, Art," Catherine replied.

"Very funny."

"Ahhh, poor Art. Don't worry, they'll retire you before you hit 90. Missing Glynco? All the pathetic recruits? Dodging bullets on the shooting range the first week?"

"Maybe not so much," Art chuckled.

"Are you still looking for a new deputy?" Catherine asked.

"I'm always lookin' for a new deputy," Art grumbled. "I had another one put in for a transfer last week. The new kids do their 3 years and move on as fast as they can. And then they never call."

"I guess Kentucky is just not sexy enough. They all want LA or Miami." Catherine replied sympathetically. "Well, I'll get to the point since it's so close to quitting time. I was sorting through the assignment requests for our latest batch of grads, and I had to call you. You won't believe it, Art. I have a young man here who actually requested Lexington."

"Yer shittin' me. What's wrong with 'im?"

"I'm sending his information now, but I'll give you the highlights. You know when they joke that someone should be teaching the class? Well, this young man should be teaching weapons here. Seriously, he's that good. And his marks in all the classroom and fieldwork are fine. Honestly, it's just his personal skills that need work. His instructors are a little tired of his sarcasm. Should I send him your way?"

"It might be nice to have someone who actually wants to be here for a change," Art replied. "Send him on over. I think I can handle the sarcasm."

"If anyone can, you can," Catherine stated.

"I don't appreciate the sarcasm," said Art.

Art hung up and checked his inbox. He opened Catherine's email and scanned the attachment – a new deputy with a shiny new badge. He'd pair him up with Rachel for training. Any sass would be skewered with just one of her pointed glares.

Tim Gutterson. Now, why did that name ring a bell?

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><p>Author's note: I apologize if the cartoon references are obscure, but it was fun thinking them up.<p> 


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